


Something Like That

by grey2510



Series: Tumblr Prompts and Requests (SPN) [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s12e14 The Raid, Post-Episode: s12e15 Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell, vague season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Dean hates to admit it, but they owe Crowley. He may be a demon, but he's saved their asses more than once. Maybe it's time to repay the favor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThayerKerbasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/gifts).



> thayerkerbasy asked:
> 
> For your prompt thing: Number 12 with Dean and Crowley
> 
>  
> 
>  ~~Key~~ , glass, red, ~~petal~~ , end, call
> 
> Also, I started writing this before 12x16, so Sam's role in all this is slightly different from the position he takes in the latest episode. Think of it more like a sequel to 12x15.

Dean hates it. Hates everything about these douchebag British Men of Letters, hates their shiny computers and stupid looking anti-supernatural tech and weaponry (why is everything painted cheap gold and looks like it was bought off a discount rack?), hates the way that even after case after case where it’s so fucking clear that these guys don’t know jack shit (Dean still hasn’t forgiven them for Ramiel—dude was a fucking _Prince of Hell_ , how do you miss that? Cas almost _died_ —)...

But most of all, he hates how fucking clinical it is, how cold.

Hunting isn’t detached. It’s messy, it hurts, it’s in your face, it seeps into your skin until you think even the best water pressure in the world can’t wash it away.

And if there’s one thing that Dean’s learned—the hard way, because it’s always the fucking hard way—it’s that there’s a lot more grey area than these assholes realize.

No, that’s not what he hates most of all.

What he hates most of all is watching his brother and mother nod along like they agree with this. Mary, he can almost forgive—almost—but Sam? Sam, who never really forgave Dean for Amy? Sam, who knows Garth, and Kate...and hell, even Benny? Benny, who even though Sam _hated_ him, had gone back to freaking Purgatory just because Dean asked for his help saving his little brother?

And what about _Cas?_

What happens when angels are the next monster on the hit list?

The whole thing makes him sick.

“Now, we’ve found some lore on something called the Demon Trials,” Mick is saying, standing in front of a screen that looks like it would fit better with a few lens flares on the deck of the _Enterprise._

Dean drums his fingers on the table, resolutely not making eye contact with Sam because he’s just not sure he can take his brother’s reaction to this. Of course Mick’s only read about it in the lore. Of course he has no fucking clue that they’ve been down this road before, that Sam nearly died, that Dean fucked up so bad with Gadreel and—

Yeah, they’ll just pretend this is all brand new information. Play their cards close their chests, like that somehow gives them the moral high ground in this.

“We don’t know how the Trials actually work, traditionally,” Mick continues. His eyes light up with the promise of something new and exciting. “But the boys back home have been working on something. We know of Hell Gates—your one in Wyoming, for example, and we have one in our own backyard in the Highlands. So they’ve been reverse engineering the problem, so to speak. They think we have a way of closing Hell. Permanently. No more demons.”        

“All of them?” Mary asks, intrigued and amazed. Her eyes are wide as she looks between the three men.

“Every last black-eyed bastard,” Mick confirms. “Or red, or yellow, or white—you get my point.”

Sam shifts in his seat. “And the collateral?”

“What do you mean?” Mick asks pleasantly.  

Eyes flicking towards Dean, Sam replies, “Well, something of this magnitude usually requires a sacrifice. Or there’s the potential for harm or injury, whether to the caster or those in the general vicinity.”

Smooth, Dean thinks. Tiptoed right around that one just fine.

Mick frowns. “There’s shouldn’t be any collateral. That’s the upside of doing things our way, researching them. We can create safe methods and technologies for doing this.”

“What about the—" Dean almost says ‘meatsuits’, partly out of habit and partly to see if it’ll ruffle Davies’ delicate sensibilities. "—possessed? The people the demons are walking around in?”

“As you know, demons rarely care for the lives of their vessels. Even if the demons were expelled from their bodies before getting trapped in Hell, the humans would likely be dead already.”

“And those who wouldn’t be dead?”

Mick looks uncomfortable, clearly not having accounted for _that_ collateral. Mary speaks up, and Dean locks eyes with her. “We can’t save everyone, Dean. But this way, we can make sure demons don’t hurt anyone ever again. We can end this, once and for all.”

“Right.”   

Sam and Mary look at him like they’re expecting him to object, but he bites his tongue. Now’s not the time.

 

It’s late-ish when they get back to the Bunker, and Sam retreats to his room. Dean contemplates raiding the place for alcohol, but he also knows that the place is dry except for the bottle of whiskey Ketch brought, and honestly, the thought of drinking that makes his skin crawl. He can’t bring himself to pour it out, though, and for some reason, he pictures the rage and indignation on Crowley’s face if he found out that a quality whiskey like that went down the drain.

Crowley.

If the Men of Letters’ plan works, Crowley’d be one thorn in his side gone. Dean can’t say he’d miss the sleazy innuendo, the walking on eggshells around the demon, the memories of when he’d been sporting his own black eyes and he and Crowley had…

He shakes his head to dislodge those memories as best he can.

Except Crowley’s pulled through for them, more than once. He rallied for the Amara showdown, he helped them with the hellhound, he saved Cas—twice. He didn’t have to back up Cas against Vincifer, especially knowing he was outclassed. He didn’t have to break the Lance of Michael, he could have just bounced off with the weapon and called it day. But he didn’t.

Goddammit.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits ‘666’.

“Dean,” the demon answers. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Let me guess, you lunkheads have gotten yourselves into trouble and you need my help.”

“Need to talk to you. In person. Meet me at that bar in Nebraska. You know the one.” They hadn’t spent as much time at that bar during their ‘misadventures’ compared to others, but Dean’s reluctant to give more details over the phone than necessary.

“A date, Dean? Reliving old times? How romantic.”

“Hey, I’m trying to do you a favor.”

“Cheap beer and pool? Hardly a favor.”

“Fine. Don’t show up. Get screwed over. Have it your way.”

“You’re serious,” Crowley says, his voice quieter, more reflective. “Well, who am I to pass up a chance to conspire. See you soon, Squirrel.”

The call goes dead, and Dean pulls a Sam, scribbling a quick ‘at the bar’ on a Post-it and sticking it to a lamp, before heading in the direction he just came from: back to the garage.

 

Dean saunters into the bar, immediately regretting this decision as soon as he gets to the worn wooden bar top and creaky stools that stand out more vividly in his memory than any dime-a-dozen dive bar has any right to. The bartender—Marielle, he remembers now—is wiping down a recently vacated spot. She brushes a curly lock of hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist, hand still clutching the grey-white towel, and catches sight of him.

“Dean. Long time.”

He nods, not sure what else to say. Privately, he’d been hoping employee turnover would be higher here, but Marielle had always had that look about her that she’d live and die pouring cheap beer in this place.

Sidling up to the bar, Dean’s just about to sit and ask for a whiskey when Marielle anticipates him with a curt, “Your buddy’s in the back,” and a jut of her chin in the direction of the booths. Crowley is nursing a whiskey already, and it looks like he even got one for Dean, too.

“Thanks,” he says, offering a smile that he hopes looks more genuine than any he might have offered the last time he was here.

“I'd have thought that you and that over-compensating car of yours would have made better time,” Crowley greets as Dean slides into the booth.

It feels claustrophobic, with the high backs of the seats obscuring his view of most of the bar and creating a space that’s a touch too intimate for Dean’s liking, especially given the company. But, it’s actually probably for the best, if they don’t want to be overheard.

Choosing to ignore the demon’s jab, Dean reaches for his glass and takes a sip—it’s far better whiskey than he would have gotten for himself, and he’s certainly not going to complain.

“Good stuff,” he comments, because that’s as close as he’s going to get for thanking _Crowley_ for buying him a drink.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley glints, toasting with his own tumbler. “So,” he says after a moment, “what new intrigue has brought you to meet with me sans Moose?”

“British Men of Letters,” Dean grumbles. “Stuck up douchebags who’re freaking worthless in the field, ‘cept for their psycho killers on a short leash.”

“Hm, yes, my mother always spoke highly of them…" Crowley drawls. “And you’re bringing me this breaking news because…?”

Dean stares at his glass as if it has the answers. When none come to him, he raises it to his lips once more. “Sam’s joined up with them. My mother, too. They’ve been feeding us cases.”

“And you haven’t quite drunk the Kool-Aid, but you’ve taken a sip?”

The tumbler is empty quicker than Dean would like. “Something like that. Look,” he grimaces, “we’re not friends, Crowley, we’re not friggin’ besties or whatever you think we are, but…”

“I’ll settle for dirty little secret,” Crowley says, a corner of his mouth twisted slightly in amusement.

“They’re trying to close the Gates of Hell again,” Dean finally blurts out. “And I figured...I figured I owed you a heads up.”

Crowley is silent, regarding Dean carefully. The moment breaks, however, when the demon grins. “I was right. I _have_ rubbed off on you.”

“Whatever,” Dean deflects.

“Who would have thought…" Crowley mock-muses, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “Dean Winchester helping keep Hell open for business. Unless this is just another anything-to-keep-Sam-safe ploy?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “They say it’s not like the Trials. No one gets hurt. ‘Cept the demons.”

“And you’re overly concerned about demon-kind,” Crowley says, and there’s a certain coolness to his words, as though he suspects something of Dean. Then the lecherous grin again. “No, you’re just concerned for little ol’ me. I’m touched, Dean.”

“Yeah, well…" He half-picks up his tumbler before he remembers it’s empty. “Demons in general? Fuck ‘em. I don’t trust you, Crowley, but you’re useful sometimes.”

“And I’m delightfully charming.”

Dean snorts. “Sure. Real peach.”

“It’s been said.” Crowley flags down a waitress, silently indicating with two fingers they’d like another round. “So, Dean. What do you propose? Are we getting the band back together?”

“No, Crowley. It’s just…" He trails off, not entirely sure why he’s even giving Crowley this much insider info. It’ll probably just come back and bite him in the ass.

Crowley drums his fingers on the table. “Thank you,” he says as the waitress puts two more whiskeys down and takes away their empty glasses; Dean smiles a thanks. “You know I can’t be held accountable for anything done in self-defense.”

And there it is. “If you hurt them—"

“Please, Squirrel, I know this routine. Or have you forgot why you’re here in the first place? Why you think I’ve earned this scrap of warning?” They both drink for a moment in silence. “I’ll need to know exactly how this plan of theirs will work.”

“What, so you can sabotage it?”

“Not exactly. I don’t care if the rest of demon-kind gets shoved back to Hell—they’re bloody useless, the lot of ‘em. But I do care about saving my rather perfect arse from getting locked up for eternity with them.” He runs a thumb over the beveled edge of his tumbler. “Oh, and Juliet.”

The name niggles at Dean’s memory for a second before it clicks. “Your hellhound?”

“Raised her from a pup, Dean. What kind of papa would I be?”

Dean shakes his head. “Fine, whatever.” He takes a sip. “I’m not lying to Sam about this. Just so we’re clear.”

“How refreshing.” Crowley contemplates over his raised glass. “This could be fun, Dean.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

The second whiskey goes down even quicker than the first.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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